


The Hand That Holds the Needle and Thread

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Talk of wars, injuries I guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 03:40:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16233473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “They do not cry. Their eyes are hollow and dull; yet you can see a smile grace their face. For empires do not fall all at once, no. They fall slowly. And when someone finally brings the sword to their throats or chest. They know the pain is over and they finally join the Lord.”





	The Hand That Holds the Needle and Thread

**Author's Note:**

> For tumblr user @rantingfangirl aka katie for my long overdue BtS event!
> 
> Names: 
> 
> America - Alfred  
> England - Arthur  
> Greece - Dimitris  
> Turkey - Sadiq  
> Germania - Adalbert  
> Rome - Romulus

_Stitch, sew, cut and pull._

Civil Wars had always been nasty little things, Arthur should know, he had one every time a pitiful King or Queen bit the bullet. Lords waged war with one another and he would always be sitting in the muddied puddles of their blood sorrowfully.

But sweet Jesus and Mary above, Alfred looked worse than he did during the War of Roses.

It surprised all of Europe, really. The Big Industrial God, with the scent of smog, smoke, capitalism, and metal that followed him wherever he went. He wore tailored suits, then. Much more fancy than the rags he wore when he was a boy. He had the heart of Europeans in his hand and he knew it.  
But suits would add him no aid.  
Alfred had been borne from the blood of others, crawling out of the first blood spilt on American soil with Roanoke, with Jamestown, with godforsaken Plymouth.  
Arthur fucking _hated_ Plymouth.  
Alfred was founded in bloodshed. He discovered his glory, his passion, his love in bloodshed, in war. A boy forced to hold a rifle in his hand. One forced to fight. So he made a career out of it. Crafted his divinity and holiness from it. 

Arthur stares at the pitiful sight before him, his heart aches. Alfred was splitting, right down the goddamn middle. He mutters a prayer to the Lord, doing the sign of the cross before sitting down and getting to work.

 

He had once asked what it was like, to see an Empire fall. Fuck, he was so damned curious after his own defeat that he traveled all the way to talk to that bastard child of Hellas.  
Dimitris had laughed at him, sitting in his Janissary uniform. He looked exhausted as always, a hardy slash across his face told Arthur another revolt had failed. But he didn’t really care. The two never got along since the Greek’s comments on Shakespeare, which Arthur took offense to as per usual. And he wasn’t here to pity the old nation; he knew he wouldn’t want it anyway.  
_”Dear Lord, it is a sickly thing.”_ He said in such a calm manner. It made Arthur shudder. _“Romulus fell from Adalbert’s own sword! Hah! The irony! My sister fell to Sadiq’s. Yes. It is sickly. They come apart at their seams. But do you know the worst part of it all, Arthur? Hm? Do you wish to know?”_  
He knew he could not say no, so he said yes.  
Dimitris’ eyes blazed with an ancient wisdom. Arthur looked at him with a sense of disdain. He was created by False Gods. Even worshipped them.  
_“They do not cry. Their eyes are hollow and dull; yet you can see a smile grace their face. For empires do not fall all at once, no. They fall slowly. And when someone finally brings the sword to their throats or chest. They know the pain is over and they finally join the Lord.”_

Arthur had noticed that Dimitris never mentioned his own mother’s fall. He didn’t dare ask. 

 

Alfred doesn’t cry. That’s what scares Arthur the most as his needle pierced the other man’s skin with thread. As if he could pretend to play God! Despicable!  
He doesn’t remember Alfred crying much, he didn’t cry when he was beaten time and time again during The Revolutionary War. He didn’t cry when England stormed his shores once more, for the petty war of 1812, and burn his heart to the ground like Rome did Carthage. He did not shed a tear single tear. In fact he stood, sickly and pale like a walking corpse. He cursed England with his heaving breaths.  
The hurricane hit soon after, showing no mercy as she nearly destroyed England’s fleet. His jaw tightened and he gorges himself on the rumor’s of America’s witchcraft. 

No tears. Perhaps the American Empire was always falling. His heart breaks more at the realization of those who held the swords that slain an Empire. In Adalbert’s case; a lover. In Sadiq’s case; one who did it out of love for another.  
He loves Alfred, yet he is unsure if Alfred loved him back (many could plainly see it, but Arthur was not made for love. No. That was the Italians, The Spaniards, The Greeks, The Portuguese and The French. The relation between him and The Prussian is always clear here.)  
Yet his hand does not hold a sword; no. It holds needle and thread to stitch up the torn American Empire.  
And now it holds said Empire’s hand tightly, praying to the Lord to offer just the slightest bit of salvation, of life, of mercy. Perhaps The Mother would spare him; she was always merciful. 

His heart jumpstarts when he feels the pressure of the other’s grip. Still strong, his pulse still beating with his men, his women, his children, his railroads, his electricity, his fires, his factories. Still beating with the American Dream so many others left Europe themselves for. Yes, it’s plain to see his heart beats strong with the American Bloodline, whatever that may be. It is strong and divine since its creation. 

_“Their eyes are hollow and dull,”_ Dimitris’ tale rings in Arthur’s head. Alfred was smiling, as Dimitris warned him, and he does not cry. But his eyes, those beloved baby blues of his. They are not dull, no. They shine with a fire; one more than any machine and his gaze sparks with electricity, more shocking than the kind he’s harnessed. It makes Arthur’s heart stop then accelerate to an alarming rate. 

“Will I die?” He asks. His voice quiet, yet powerful, like the old gods of his mother’s forests.  
“No,” Arthur reassures, running his thumb along the other’s jawline, he feels the spark of Alfred’s electricity “Only reborn.”  
“Well, fuck, being “reborn” hurts like a _bitch,”_  
Arthur chuckles at Alfred’s remark. He would have much to learn, that is plain to see, if he doesn’t wish to end up like Rome, The Byzantines, or the Greeks. But Arthur can see by the flame ignited in the young man’s eyes that he will prosper and change the world as they knew it.  
And Arthur will be by his side, with the hand that holds the needle and thread.


End file.
